


Barnet Fair

by obstinatrix



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:57:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2357030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry likes Zayn's hair all long and soft like this, but he thinks it could do with a bit of something extra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barnet Fair

**Author's Note:**

> I blame lazy-daze and psycholinguistic for a) the existence of this and also b) the title. Warning for a very teeny tiny reference to marijuana at the very end.

"There's so _much_ of it," Harry says. Zayn's head is tipped back against the taut length of Harry's thigh, both of them sweaty still from the show, and Harry's hands are tangled in Zayn's hair, exploratory, marvelling. Zayn's face twitches in response, and he turns his head, rubbing the base of his skull back against Harry's leg. 

"You can talk," he mutters. Harry smirks, and tugs a little, just because he can. 

"Used to it with me, though. You've been all Mr Hard lately, took 'em by surprise, coming over all puppyface." 

"Mr Hard?" Zayn's voice is thick with amusement, until Harry twists his wrist and jerks and the tension is enough to make Zayn cry out, hand lifting backward to take hold of Harry's forearm. "Fuck's sake, man!" 

"Well." Harry's tone is unapologetic, but his fingers are gentle as he strokes Zayn's mess of soft hair back into place, smoothing it down. "It's nice," he says, slowly. "I like it. Soft." 

" _You're_ soft," Zayn says, but he's getting up, pulling himself up from his place at Harry's feet until he's looming over the armchair, one hand on either arm. "I thought you'd like it." 

"Yeah?" And it's a tease, now, this familiar heat between them, the corners of Zayn's mouth tugging up and Harry's thighs sprawled languidly apart, the two of them sizing each other up. "Why's that, then?" 

Zayn doesn't miss a beat, kneeing up onto the armchair so his firm solid weight is in Harry's lap, and Harry doesn't miss the way he tips his head forward, letting the curtain of his hair feather over one cheekbone. "Just thought," he says, looking away, "it'd give you summat to hold onto." 

Fuck. Harry sucks in a breath, hard and fast through his nose, and then his hand is in Zayn's hair again, fisted in the thick of it at his nape. "Oh yeah?" 

"Yeah," Zayn breathes, and Harry turns his wrist, and the way Zayn's eyes fall closed tells him all he needs to know. 

They don't always do it like this, Zayn yielding this way when Harry pulls him down, but Harry finds he likes the way Zayn's lips part in readiness, the soft sound he makes when Harry leans the final inch to press their mouths together. Zayn's hands fist in Harry's collar and the kiss goes rough all at once, Zayn capitulating immediately to Harry's tongue and the pressure of his hands. Zayn's mouth is _stupid_ , the kind of mouth that wins Miss World and wraps around a cock like sin, but Harry never loves it more than when it's hot and wet and sliding against his own, Zayn's dick thickening in his jeans just from the graze of Harry's teeth against his lower lip, Harry's tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

"Hazza --" Zayn's panting, turns his face into the crook of Harry's neck, but it's two in the morning already and Harry knows what he wants; knows it isn't slow, exploratory love-making and mouths everywhere. In the half-light, Zayn looks kiss-bitten and urgent, his pupils wide, and Harry wants that mouth between his legs, wants that soft hair in his hands as he fucks Zayn's face. 

"Here, get -- get down." He's being a twat, he knows, shoving at Zayn's shoulders so he half-slips off the armchair, but Zayn doesn't seem to mind, fumbling to his knees and reaching for the zip of Harry's jeans like the two of them are of one thought. 

"Yeah?" His hair is in his eyes when he looks up, that stupid perfect face between Harry's spread legs and his fingers brushing the bulge at Harry's groin. Harry bites his lip, rolls his hips, and Zayn grins as he presses his cheek against the hot swell of cock, nosing at the denim. Fuck, even from here, Harry can smell it, the boy-smell of the two of them, raw and obscene. Anyone would know what they'd been up to if they came into this room right now, even without the spectacle of Zayn mouthing at the bulge of Harry's cock, sucking through the denim as he pops the button, tugs down the zip with teasing slowness. 

"Bloody hell, c'mon, get on with it --" Harry's hand is in Zayn's hair before he knows what he's doing, and Zayn smirks, shoves his fingers into the waistband of boxers grown sticky-damp from hours onstage. 

"Hold your horses," he says, and jerks them down. 

The relief of it, when Harry's cock is free, is immense; the cool air feels good enough that Harry doesn't notice Zayn leaning in until he's mouthing at the base of him, left hand cradling the fat weight of Harry's balls. Fuck, Zayn's good at this, good with his mouth and his hands and the picture he makes, eyelashes fanned over his insane fucking cheekbones, it's like facefucking a Disney prince or something and Harry always had a bit of a thing for that.

"How long you been thinking about this?" Zayn's voice is a low tease, and Harry would be more piqued by it but for the fact that Zayn follows up his question with a soft exhalation against the head of Harry's cock, a breath of warm air against the place where his foreskin's pulled back to show his slick. Zayn leans in, then, presses his lips gently to the opening, and Harry hisses through his teeth, clenches his fists in Zayn's hair. 

"Since -- fuck, do that again." 

"Not until you tell me." Zayn throws him a wink, kisses the head of his cock, and Harry can feel himself hardening further in Zayn's hand, the fat dark head of his cock cresting out of its confines, seeking Zayn's heat. Zayn's cut -- Muslim, of course -- and Harry sometimes forgets that his fascination with Zayn's bare cock is echoed by Zayn's own obsession with Harry's foreskin, the way he can catch it in his teeth and draw it up over his crown, the way he can glide it back and forth over his slit with the aid of Harry's precome. 

"C'mon," Harry says, and knows Zayn will hear it for what it is, hear the plea in it. "C'mon, just --" His hand spreads wide over the top of Zayn's head, pushing down. "Suck me, suck it, god...yeah..."

Everything goes blurry when Zayn finally relents and takes him in his mouth, kitten-licks all up his shaft until there's nothing but wet heat all around the crown of him, Zayn groaning softly as he takes Harry in. Harry feels his lips part almost involuntarily, head falling back, and Zayn goes right in to tongue at him, flattening against the place where Harry's sensitive, then slipping beneath the drawn-back foreskin to tease him out. 

It's almost ridiculous to remember that once upon a time this was an unknown thing for all of them, now that they do it with such ease, soft mouths and soft throats taking each other in. Zayn groans, and the vibration of it thrums all the way to Harry's chest, making him buck up and clutch Zayn's hair. Zayn's a tease, but he's teasing himself too, Harry knows, and any time now -- fuck, yes -- Zayn'll break, shove his mouth down hotly as far as he can until Harry's sheathed firmly in the clutch of his throat. 

"Zayn -- Christ --" He's lifting his hips, pulling Zayn's hair hard enough to hurt, but the deep-seated sounds in the back of Zayn's throat are far from critical and Zayn's moving faster, now, pulling off almost right to the tip and then fucking back again, the sound of it wet and messy. Harry throws his head back and pulls harder, yanking Zayn's mouth back onto his dick, and Zayn only groans his pleasure and goes with it, letting Harry fuck his mouth, fuck his face, fuck himself wet and easy over Zayn's clever tongue and the ridges of his throat until Jesus, Jesus -- 

He knows it, the moment he's ready to come, the fuzz of pleasure building like white noise behind his eyes. Zayn's hair is soft in his hands, thick between his fingers, and Harry wants with a sudden urgency, wants -- 

He pulls out. Zayn makes a disappointed sound, reaching for him, but Harry shakes his head, his own hand going immediately to fist himself. 

"Shhh, shh..." He doesn't know if he's talking to Zayn or himself -- "fuck, your fucking hair -- Zayn --" 

He's almost there by the time Zayn gets the picture, face going from consternation to gratification as he leans in and rubs himself against Harry's dick, soft glide of hair against the underside of his cock. "Yeah, Hazza, c'mon...c'mon..." 

Zayn's thumb against his taint and _fuck_ that's it, he's arching his back and coming, thick hot pulses of it into Zayn's hair, white and white and white across the tousled mess of black. It's like ruining perfection, like footprints in new-fallen snow, and Zayn's panting against his thigh, rutting against Harry's calf until Harry drags him up, fingers carding through the sticky delicious disaster that is Zayn's hair. 

"Yeah, yeah --" Zayn's cock fucks sticky-slick through Harry's fist and they're both gasping, Zayn's face in the crook of Harry's neck and Harry's mess all over Zayn's hair and neck and cheek, the smell of it salty and dark and good and supreme until Zayn groans and comes in Harry's hand, a hot burst of ejaculate that's musky and thick and _him_. 

A long moment before Zayn leans back, his eyes heavy-lidded on Harry's face. 

"Fetishist," he says. For a minute they're still, panting, and then Zayn gets up with a groan and reaches for his bag. "Fancy a toke?" 

Harry grins.


End file.
